Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1951)

Forever, Audie He TRUTH aM Draft-age Morals in MIIST True Story MAGAZINE ^ now at newsstands The average decent teenage girl of today faces serious problems in a nation made restless by the growing threat of war. Wrong answers can easily lead her into the ranks of our tragic delinquents. We’d better do something about it! Don’t miss this revealing comprehensive article by Jules Archer, one of America’s leading authorities on teen-age delinquency. GANGSTER’S GIRL Other girls had their dreams of marriage, of loving just one man forever. This is the frank story of a girl who only wanted MONEY, and what it could buy. And she found out how to get it. THEY GALLED ME TEASER About a lonely girl who wanted dates but copied tricks from the WRONG KIND of girl. LAST SUMMER’S LOVE The stirring account of a young girl who vacations alone to get even and finds a new and lasting love. n Get YOUR COPY of AUGUST t n s A ( Continued from page 43) time I finally found the pilot, Audie had gone and how it was last summer before we really met when another air hostess and I spent our vacation in Hollywood. Day-dreaming can be very dangerous — and disappointing. But as I knew Audie better, I liked him even more. His admirable qualities, I soon found, far outweighed any with which I imaginatively had endowed him. So many people in Texas loved him and I began to understand why. He’s the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever known. “Now that I’m a married man, I’m going to have to start saving,” he says very seriously now. But somehow I can’t quite foresee this. Audie would rob his own penny jug any time to buy a gift for a friend. Typical of his thoughtful selection is the gold choker, the matching bracelet and earrings he had made up specially for me. The bracelet has a large gold ornament made in the shape of Texas and set with a diamond denoting Dallas’s locale. I WAS impressed when I read about Audie, just out of the Army, buying his sister a home in Farmersville and taking his younger sisters and brother out of the orphanage to share it with her. More recently he bought them a car. And little four-year-old niece Charlene has the distinction of owning the first sixteen-inch television set in Farmersville. And for some time he has been corresponding with a little boy in Austin, Texas, who is seriously ill. He’s always sending him things — cowboy suits, guns, clothing. He never talks about anything he does. Which reminds me, a few days before we were married, Audie was officially honored by Texas by having his portrait hung in the state capitol building in Austin. It was quite a ceremony, with the Governor and many notables present. Audie addressed the Senate and the House and was very well received — so a friend of his who was present told me. Audie’s only comment was: “My mother always said I’d be hung someday, but I wish they could have waited until after my wedding.” I really think he was glad that his “hanging” allowed him to escape the confusion of my wedding preparations. We were giving up our house too. And what with my getting married and packing and all the other hostesses packing and moving, it was pretty mad around there. That morning Audie walked in, gave a furtive look around and rushed out the door without even saying goodbye. I was ironing a skirt and didn’t realize for a minute that he’d gone. When he reached the safety of a phone booth he called me. “Where on earth are you?” I asked. “I just couldn’t stand all that chatter and confusion,” he said. Since Audie had to report back to Hollywood within a few days for “The Cimarron Kid,” our wedding arrangements were hurried and quite informal. A good friend of Audie’s, S. H. Lynch, a Dallas businessman, gave a beautiful dinner for us at the “Cipango Club,” topped off with a dessert course of individual Baked Alaska decorated with “Pam and Audie — Happy Years.” We received so many letters and telegrams, none of which I valued more than the letter from Mr. and Mrs. T. E. Braniff (my former boss), expressing their happiness. They have a genuine investment in our marriage. I’ll never forget how much I owe them. If my boss hadn’t given me the free plane trip to Hollywood for my vacation — I would probably never have met Audie Murphy. We were married at seven-thirty in the evening in the beautiful Cox Chapel of the Highland Park Methodist Church, with the Assistant Pastor, William Dickinson, who is also the Chaplain in Audie’s 36th Division, officiating. Annabel Schiesher, another air hostess and my dear friend, wearing a toast-colored shantung suit with white accessories, was my attendant. “Skipper” James O. Cherry, city manager for Interstate Theatres and an old friend of Audie’s, was best man. Everything went beautifully, but for a moment there I was a little worried. The groom and best man had come out of their room, and my attendant and I had emerged from the other. We were all walking slowly towards the altar when I saw Audie suddenly hesitate. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. Had he forgotten the ring? Was he thinking it over? Was he about to say, “Look, Little Squaw (his nickname for my Cherokee heritage) , let’s not rush this thing”? Then in a moment, he was moving forward again. His little niece Charlene, watching wide-eyed from the front pew, had recognized her uncle and waved two little gloved fingers at him and Audie had paused to wink at her. I received one note from a girl warning me not to marry Audie. She’d clipped the letters out of a magazine and pasted them together so her handwriting wouldn’t be revealed. “Pamela: ” it read, “If you marry Audie, you will live in fear. I love him,” and signed, “Tigress.” But I was not to be discouraged even by “Tigress” — not after six years of dreaming. Most of our honeymoon we spent at Ray Woods’s dude ranch, which always will have many sentimental memories for me. For the present we’re living in Audie’s two-bedroom duplex in a bungalow court just off the Sunset Strip. It’s very spacious and homey and charmingly furnished. I couldn’t handle a more pretentious place. In our bedroom closet is Audie’s wedding gift to me. A set of three handsome leather travelling cases bearing the gold initials “P.A.M.” — for Pamela Archer Murphy, my married monogram. Also in the closet is an off-white raw silk suit with sequinned collar and cuffs — my wedding dress. Mutely evident, a flock of rice in one of my toastcolored slippers. Funny, I don’t even remember them throwing rice at us. I was too excited to be conscious of much of anything. In a bureau drawer is a pair of gold cuff links in the form of tiny pearl-handled revolvers — my gift to the groom. “Shall I put them in my gun case? Or wait until I find a Western shirt with French cuffs?” Audie asked when I gave them to him, simulating a puzzled expression. When Audie has a day off while working on a picture, I like to give him his breakfast in bed. The first time he was a little shocked at the idea. The second morning he’d weakened. “You know I might get to like this.” And confidentially, he does. Audie’s always coming in with some new equipment he’s sure will be of help to me. The latest is the ultra in electric ovens in which I could cook a whole meal in one painless operation. “This will save you work,” he says, “and we will have more time together.” “It’s lovely,” I said. “But it will take me forever to learn to work it.” We’re studying house plans all along, and “designing” the ranch home we hope to build north of Los Angeles someday. Audie brought back some horns from Texas which we plan to mount over the “future” fireplace. Someday too, we dream about building another ranch back in Texas and raising Brangus cattle. (This is a cross breed of Brahma and Angus.) I don’t care where I live — so long as it’s with Audie. The End